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Cbe Soiaier's Farewell 



Charles Paull 



(Uti^ S^nlhmB Ifnnmtll 



BY 

Charles Paull 

5\ 




Published by 

The Hawke Publishing Co. 

119 State Street 

Albany, N. Y. 



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Cop5'right, 1918 

BY 

The Hawke Phblishing Co. 



©C!..U970SO 

RPR 25 lb lb 



33rbtratt0tt 



/ take the very greatest pleasure in 
dedicating this little work to Mrs. 
Wilson, because I know she will un- 
derstand and appreciate the motive 
behind its publication; and oh, so 
much more because I know she is 
with the President all along the way. 





man o' strength, a man o' might, 
A man who's alway for " the right'' 
A man to trust thro' darkest night, 
The President. 



®1|^ ^ubUaliFrs' JPrrfurr 




OR four years Charles Paull has been engaged 
upon a work which will be offered to the public 
in the near future, under the title of " The Velvet 
on the Footstool." 

In order to obtain certain local color, it was necessary 
for him to visit some of the manufacturing centres of 
America during the winter; and thus it came about that 
he was in the city of Gloversville, in the State of New 
York, on the third day of February of this year — 1918. 

Having finished his investigations in that city, and 
being about to depart for Schenectady, he was in the 
little station of the F., J. & G. Railroad Company when 
his attention was attracted by a young couple who were 
apparently awaiting the same train. 

Charles Paull did not go to Schenectady that day! 

He went back to the little room he had rented, and 
wrote, for our encouragement, what he had seen in the 
eyes of that young couple. 

Whether they were husband and wife, brother and 
sister, or just sweethearts, he did not know; nor does it 
matter. One was a soldier! 

There is no one class of men in such close touch with 
the Infinite as the farmer; with the possible exception of 
the physician. Year after year, the farmer — even if 



sub-consciously — realizes the coming of the year in the 
birth or rejuvenation of vegetation. 

" In days v^rhen daisies deck the ground, 
And blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound 
To meet the coming year." 

The wonders of the Creator unfold before his eyes, and 
like Burns — himself a tiller of the soil — he is troubled 
or comforted by thoughts, elated or depressed by emotions 
unknown to the great mass of city dwellers. 

In each generation there arises one man from the soil 
who has The Divine Spark; one who can see further 
into the unknown, who can understand more clearly the 
unexpressed, than can his fellows. He has thought more 
deeply, suffered more keenly, and found his happiness 
more easily than would be possible for us who centre our 
interests in mundane matters. Of course his land is 
mortgaged, and his roof is leaky, and there are many 
little luxuries — his more practical brother considers 
them necessities — that he must deny himself : — 

" Yet Nature's charms, the hills and woods. 
The sweeping vales and foaming floods, 
Are free alike to all." 

And in them he finds his joys. 

Precisely such a man is Charles Paull, and we take 
the very greatest pleasure in presenting him to the Amer- 
ican public. 



He has written before in western and foreign publica- 
tions, but his writings have been for the most part upon 
the problems of the agriculturalist, and therefore have not 
reached the public as a whole. 

We submitted some of his lines to a business associate 
of ours — a hard-headed, practical man of large affairs — 
and he remarked : — 

" Well, that is precisely what I have thought myself ■" 

What is contained in the accompanying verses is what 
we have all thought, and what we have all felt, but put 
into more beautiful language than men of affairs use; 
and though, to the captious critic, the work may have its 
literary faults, we make no apology for them, because we 
know that if you will but read the lines we offer you, 
they will reach a corner of your heart so far removed 
from the coarsenesses of everyday life, that you will be 
well rewarded for the time spent thereon. 

THE PUBLISHERS. 



PubltBtf^rfi' Not? 



In the following letter Charles Paull — 
an intense admirer of the President — lays 
his work at the feet of the President's wife. 



THIRTY-THREE FIFTH AVENUE 
Gloversville. N. Y. 

February 3rd, 1918. 

Mrs. Woodrow Wilson, 
The White House, 

Washington, D. C. 

Dear Lady: 

I was about to purchase a ticket from Glovers- 
ville to Albany this afternoon, when my attention 
was attracted by a young couple who were standing near 
by, holding each other's hands and eyes; but saying 
nothing. 

He was a handsome young fellow, in a soldier's uniform, 
and she was a very sweet girl with large brown eyes. 

They had neither eyes nor ears for others — these two — 
and I noticed, though the day was bitterly cold, that the 
sweat stood in little beads on his upper lip, which trembled. 

With the exception of myself, they were the last to reach 
the car, and as he mounted the step he turned to her, and 
whispered her name : — " Amie." 

From her heart she answered : — 

" Boy! Boy! Oh, Boy of my heart!" 

The conductor rang his bell, and the car left me there, 
standing in the snow; realizing, as never before, what it 
has meant to those who have gone " Over There," and to 
those who have been left behind. 



I returned to my room, but the memory haunted me. He 
was so young, and handsome, and brave; and he felt it all 
so keenly! Here was no light-headed, unthinking boy! 
But he knew the urgency of the " Call," and would not 
shirk ! 

He had not dared to kiss her! 

I took my pen in hand, and tried to write for the en- 
couragement of others what I had seen in their eyes : — 
their mutual love, and hope, and fear; but superseding all, 
his determination to answer the '* Call," if necessary to the 
end. 

I should have wished to have read my faulty verses to 
you in person, were it not temerity; but should my effort, 
or the motive inspiring it, find favour in your eyes, may I 
be permitted to dedicate it to you? 

Your humble and obedient servant, 




PublifilifrB* Noti? 



Owing to the unusual storm which we 
had at that time, and no doubt, also to 
the enormous amount of mail being re- 
ceived at The White House, no reply 
was received for some days, and the 
Poet sent the following to Mrs, Wilson: 




(^0 MlBtVtBB WtlB0tt 



OW, Mistress Wilson, Gentle Soul, 
Without intent to hurt me, 
Has placed me in a fearsome hole, 
Wi' spiklets a* agirt me. 

I sent to her a wee bit pome. 

An' tauld her a' about it ; 
Then bided in my little home. 

To hear the people shout it. 

But nae sich thing has happened yet, 

I canna think she's read it ; 
Perhaps some serving wench will get 

Faint praise for having said it. 

Now these, o' course, be troublous times, 
An' Mistress Wilson's thinking. 

It's no at words and silly rhymes 
Her bonnie eyes she's blinking. 

But each maun hae his little day. 
E'en farmers frae the furrow. 

An* bards should sing a little lay 
0' sodgers home on furlough. 



So, in thae lines I bared my heart, 

And made the revelation, 
That even I could play a part, 

In bucking up the Nation. 

I thought o' Amie, muckle fair, 
I thought o' Boy, sae brawny; 

I smelt the perfume of her hair, 
I saw his face sae tawny. 

I saw him sleep in trenches deep! 

I saw him down on blood stained groun*. 

The Nation's offering; 
I saw her, mateless, end her days 
In holy works and saintly ways; 

I saw her suffering! 

Yet, Mistress Wilson, dinna fear, 
I'd say one word to start a tear. 
Or do a thing that would na cheer 

The President; 
A man o' strength, a man o' might, 
A man who's alway for " the right," 
A man to trust thro' darkest night. 

The President. 



J^ubltsljjprB' Notr 



Before the verses had time to reach The 
White House, the expected letter was 
received, and the Poet sent the follow- 
ing to " The First Lady in the Land." 




Ea Qiitt mvBt ffiabg tn % %mh 



OW, Mistress Wilson, Lovely Woman, 
Has found out how she hurt me, 
So lent a han' like any man. 
An' with good friends has girt me. 

She's read the lines I sent to her, 
Nor seen their many errors ; 

Which shows the kindly heart o' her, 
She feels for us poor fellers. 

And if it be, as she would see — 
It fills my soul with longing — 

That the Creator spake through me, 
The words to Him belonging; 

The credit's due, if she but knew, 

To infinite compassion. 
For I but put in words too few 

My patriotic passion. 



® 



®I|f g'nlbt^r'a ^urr^ttb^r 



E part, Dear Heart, and ah, there is no saying 
How long the time till we shall meet again ; 
But this we know, our souls* true love obeying, 
We shall as one until that hour remain. 
No doubts nor fears shall serve to rend asunder 
The Halcyon bonds that link our lives to-day ; 
In peaceful shine, or dark and fearsome thunder 
We'll count the hours till the coming of our day. 

We part, Dear Heart, and oh, the heartfelt longing 

To bridge the time till we may meet again ; 
Till you to me, in very truth belonging. 

Shall whisper words to make me live again. 
Till I see once more in your dark eyes* splendour 

The look of love, now fraught with fear and pain, 
1*11 do my bit, and to The Cause surrender 

My cherished hopes — until we meet again ! 




A S^tiihxtfB ^ant 



'LL leave my land, by war's command, 
To meet with deed that man of greed, 

The foe of happiness. 
In trenches deep our troth I'll keep, 

Nor fear to know what Huns may show 
The world of f rightfulness. 

In stinking mud, all foul with blood, 
And parts of men — their last Amen, 

ril dream of loveliness. 
On earth red-brown I'll lay me down. 
For angels know the love you show 

For me is holiness. 

With Allies grand, I'll take my stand, 
To drive away, at early day, 

The arms of wickedness. 
With friends so brave, I'll face the grave. 
And help to place our future race 

In blessed peacefulness. 



And, Amie Dear, you need not fear. 
Because I go where brave men show 

The path to manliness; 
For God must know I love you so, 
And wield with zeal, to guard our weal, 

The sword of righteousness. 

Yet, should I die, you must not cry; 
Lest some might think that you could sink 

To utter selfishness; 
But think with joy that your big Boy 
Did play his part, and gave his heart 

To end this Awf ulness. 




®lj^ ^sxlhm^B Appeal 



OW can we sleep, while widows weep? 
How seek we joys, while our brave boys 
Make their last stand near No Man's Land 
For Liberty? 
Think of the twist of the bayonet wrist ! 
'Tis the cornerstone of a tyrant's throne ! 
Sniff at the smoke, just made to choke 
Our Liberty! 

How can I stay so far away? 

How can I play while mothers pray? 

How hold my say, when chargers neigh 

"Death or Liberty?" 
List! 'Tis the beat of soldier feet! 
Hark ! 'Tis the clank of armoured tank ! 
Rejoice, for " Right " has answered " Might," 

"Death or Liberty!" 



So Amii? 



X 



LOOKED across the threshold of your soul, 
Through love's bright light. 
I saw, through mists of fears, beyond control. 
Your heart's delight. 

I saw you knew how glad you ought to be 

In this dark night, 
To send to God's great host, what He lent thee, 

A man of might. 

And tho* through many nights to come, his feet 

Abroad may roam, 
The light of thy great love, so pure, so sweet, 

Will guide him home. 



5ubltaIj?rB* Nnt^ 



Sheep are kept on the sagebrush plains from early fall 
till spring, and are then driven into the mountains. 

Many shepherds follow the custom of taking with the 
ewes an old wether who knows the trail, and around his 
neck a bell is hung. 

He is always in the lead, and those sheep which are too 
far behind to see him, follow the sound of the bell. 

Some shepherds claim that from the ringing of the bell 
they can tell if anything has stopped the sheep in the lead, 
or if danger has threatened the wether. 

It is the custom to arrange a camp for the sheep each 
night, and this camp is called a " bedding ground." A 
camp which is used as headquarters for the season is 
known as a " lay," or " lay-out." 

Of the habits of the predatory animals of the West, the 
poem deals fully. 

The grizzly bear has almost disappeared from our West, 
and the cougar, or mountain lion is scarce; but the 
coyote — the bane of the shepherd's existence — still 
flourishes. 

We give this little explanation to enable the reader to 
enter fully into the atmosphere of the shepherd's life, with 
which the author is so intimately acquainted. 

This poem was not one of those submitted to Mrs. 
Wilson, but tvas actually written after the first proof of 
this work had been sent from the press. 



sill? W^tiltv Irll 



X 



HEAR across the sagebrush swell 
The tinkling of the wether bell : 
Assured, I lay me down to sleep, 
No danger's near my gentle sheep. 

I ponder deep, as down I lie, 
With naught between me and the sky, 
On God's permitting sheep to roam, 
And stray so very far from home. 

Poor black sheep who would go through hell, 
To hear once more the wether bell ; 
They know they're far from pastures green, 
Or places where a shepherd's seen. 

Why will not men each other treat 
With kindly care, and sin defeat? 
What victory to harass those 
Who only ask of life repose ? 

Why should some men so brutal be ? 
What gain to stifle sympathy ? 
'Tis better far to earn a crown 
By lifting one whom we find down. 



Now, when I hear a frantic ring, 
And frenzied bleat, my dogs I bring, 
Who soon surround the stamping feet ; 
And at my voice they cease to bleat. 



As thus I muse, I look above, 

And see the sky is not all love : 

The twinkling stars have gone too soon. 

And through the clouds I see the moon. 

'Tis very grave, and cold, and stern. 
And bids me watch — if I would learn — 
The habits of the coyote slim. 
The grizzly bear, and cougar grim. 

The grizzly boldly takes his prey, 
Then hies him to another lay ; 
The cougar lurks behind a rock, 
And picks the choicest of the flock. 

The shepherd's dogs they boldly dare, 
For sticks and stones they do not care ; 
The wether bell no warning rings. 
To one alone their blow death brings. 



But coyotes are another race 
Of pests, we shepherds have to face ; 
They shun the open like the grave, 
There's naught about them even brave. 

When twilight falls, they slink around 
Some pasture used as bedding ground. 
The wether bell they go not near. 
They hunt for lambs untrained to fear. 

They drive them off a mile or more. 
And revel in a bath of gore ; 
What time their fellows circle round 
The wether bell, and camping ground. 

When morning comes, the shepherd kind 
Sees that his flock is far behind 
The tally counted yesterday ; 
And hurries off to find the stray. 

In narrow gorge he finds them all. 
Dead — torn — scattered from wall to wall 
No bleat from there could shepherd bring, 
Nor wether bell its guidance ring. 

The shepherd knows no grizzly bear, 
Nor mountain lion drove them there ; 
The cruel coyote knows full well 
The purport of the wether bell. 



Some men there be, of grizzly type, 
Some men will show the cougar stripe ; 
Such men, if cruel, still are brave, 
In open field they risk the grave. 

I knew a biped coyote, who 
Swore to his office to be true ; 
He made long talks on charity, 
And pleaded hard for unity. 

He was the mayor of his town. 
And posed as '* wisdom " with a frown ; 
He strode the streets with pompous gait, 
And city business had to wait. 

He spoke in terms of eulogy 
Of certain men of usury ; 
He claimed no foe could honest be, 
And proved it by his dignity. 

But when the test came, as it did, 
With coyote instinct, swift he hid ; 
He drowned his conscience with the roar 
Of ocean's beat — and good red ore. 

Some poor black sheep had strayed from camp. 
Led away by a preaching scamp ; 
Their bedding ground a filthy pen ; 
No fitting place to keep good men. 



Poor black sheep who would go through hell, 
To hear once more the wether bell ; 
They know they're far from pastures green, 
Or places where a shepherd's seen. 

He was the dog the shepherd sent, 
To see those sheep were all content ; 
But coyote-like, he shunned the bell, 
And let those men endure that hell. 

I see his end, the traitor knave ! 

The wretched pelf no comfort gave ! 

He fears to hear a wether bell. 

Lest it should sound his own death knell ! 



And now I gaze with puzzled frown, 
To where the moon was looking down ; 
But a long, loud thunderous peal 
Brings to my thoughts the Nation's weal. 

There is a coyote — Kaiser — man, 
Who's out to kill, with all his clan, 
Any who dare to bar the way 
To his ambition — worldly sway ! 



We read of him as being sent 
By God, to teach us what He meant 
That we should do upon this earth, 
To prove to Him our higher worth. 

To prove how tender God could be, 
He killed a nurse, and babies three ; 
And justified the horrid deed, 
By saying God had thus decreed ! 

Now, when I think, with bursting heart, 
Of how that angel played her part. 
And cheered the wounded in her care, 
I wonder how the coyote dare. 

That was no act ofDravery ! 

No act of dire necessity! 

Miss Cavell merely wore the bell. 

That told the wounded all was well ! 

No love has he for Liberty ! 
His words are all one blasphemy ! 
The wether bell is tolling free ! 
His act will cost him Victory ! 



My reverie has passed the night ! 
From the Far East there comes a light, 
Which shows a cross suspended high, 
And on its arm a Blood-Dimmed Eye. 

O'er all the earth a Voice is heard : — 
" To each one born I send the word. 
To heed the little bell that rings ; 
An easy conscience My Peace brings ! " 



The grizzly bears are in the trench ! 
The cougars wait behind the bench ! 
The coyotes, out of danger hie. 
And urge their slaughter with a lie ! 

Inf antrjTuan ! You grizzly bear ! 
Mounted man, with the cougar dare ! 
For you " The Wether Bell " rings clear, 
** Liberty Bell " from over here ! ! ! 



iiiiiiii 

018 349 273 i 



